At Night I Closed My Eyes And

The Cowboy Music Twanged In The Roadhouse And Carried Across The Fields, All Sadness. It Was All Right With Me. I Kissed My Baby And We Put Out The Lights.

My Fault, My Failure, Is Not In The Passions I Have, But In My Lack Of Control Of Them.

Believe In The Holy Contour Of Life.

The Human Bones Are But Vain Lines Dawdling, The Whole Universe A Blank Mold Of Stars.

So Therefore I Dedicate Myself, To My Art, My Sleep, My Dreams, My Labors, My Suffrances, My Loneliness, My Unique Madness, My Endless Absorption And Hunger Because I Cannot Dedicate Myself To Any Fellow Being.